Stones (Data)

by Jacob Whaler

  Ryzaard smiles as his teeth grind together behind the lips. How could Van Pelt have missed this one? He makes a mental note to discuss Ms. Chen’s upcoming nomination for a second board term with him after the meeting.

  “I understand your skepticism, and I welcome the challenge you have just thrown out. As they say, the proof is in the trading.” He fingers the Stone in his pocket. “Ms. Chen, how would you like to see a real-time demonstration of the technology? Right here, right now.”

  “With all due respect, Dr. Ryzaard, I don’t think you have the guts to do that.”

  Ryzaard digs deep to hide his shock at the rough tone of Ms. Chen’s words. Apparently, there is still at least one director unafraid to challenge him. He turns behind him to the visitors’ table where Alexa sits next to the corporation’s general counsel. He points at the cylindrical object, its gold exterior glinting in the light.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen, may I introduce the Xerxes Diviner.”

  Alexa stretches her hand toward the device on the table in front of her. She plays her fingers on its side, and green lights begin to flash.

  “Which exchange shall we test it on? Can I have a suggestion?” Ryzaard holds out his hands to the nine directors spread out in the chairs above him.

  “How about Shenzhen?” Ms. Chen twists a lock of hair with a mischievous look on her face. “One of the most volatile in the world.”

  “Excellent choice. The more volatility, the better the profits.” Ryzaard nods at Alexa sitting at the table. Her fingers play again across the glossy surface of the slate. The lights in the room dim. “For this experiment, your mobile devices will be reactivated so you can independently verify what we are about to show you.”

  Three of the directors pull out their jaxes, which suddenly glow blue in the dark room.

  The wall screen behind Ryzaard lights up, and he steps to the side. The words Shenzhen Stock Exchange appear in white on a dark background.

  “Any suggestions for a stock to trade?”

  “Wong Dung International?” A director pipes up.

  “Wong Dung. One of our competitors. A volatile stock indeed. Notoriously dangerous to trade. Many an investor has been shipwrecked on its erratic shoals.” Ryzaard walks across the front of the room with his hands behind his back and turns to face the screen. Then he signals Alexa with a finger. The words Wong Dung International appear on screen near the top. Below that, the familiar jagged green line of a stock ticker snakes its way across the wall from left to right.

  “This is how the stock is trading right now in real-time,” Ryzaard points to the line above him. “We’ll now access the trading algorithm to generate the predicted movement of the stock thirteen seconds from now. You’ll see that in red.”

  Sneaking a peek in his pocket, Ryzaard sees the Stone turn to a luminous purple.

  A red line jumps onto the screen a foot ahead of the green line and begins to move like a snail across the wall, leaving a trail behind it. The green line follows just behind, getting closer.

  The room is silent except for one director that inhales sharply as the red line spikes up, hangs for a second and falls back down, leaving a mark shaped like a mountain peak, a perfect profit-taking opportunity.

  “By the way,” Ryzaard pauses for dramatic effect. “You’re all invited to join in this trade, for your own personal accounts. Please wait for the buy and sell signals.”

  There is a frantic rush among the directors as they pull out their jaxes, fingers tapping the sides. The only holdout is Ms. Chen, who sits calmly without moving, arms folded in front, a smile of contempt on her face.

  The seconds tick by as the directors stare at the green line giving chase to the red one.

  “Prepare to trade.” A female synvoice fills the silence in the room.

  There’s a palpable sense of adrenaline rising among the directors.

  “Good hunting,” Ryzaard says.

  Before their eyes, the green line kisses the red one and follows its path. Two directors stand up, jaxes in hand, eyes fixed on the screen. Like one snake swallowing another, the green line moves exactly behind the red.

  In two seconds, the green line will touch the base of the spike in the red one.

  “Buy stock,” the voice says.

  The two standing directors each swipe the sides of their jax.

  The green line, still showing real-time stock prices, suddenly spikes up and follows the red. Ten breathless seconds go by as it scales the mountain.

  Six more directors jump to their feet and swipe their jaxes.

  The green line makes the summit as eight fingers tremble over eight jaxes.

  “Sell stock.”

  The green line goes into a nose-dive and follows the red line down.

  Two minutes and ten trades later, Ms. Chen jumps to her feet, jax in hand.

  One of the directors clears his throat. “I’m dumping my entire retirement account into this.”

  Mr. Van Pelt jerks his own jax out of his pocket, drops it and dives to the floor after it. He comes up with it in desperation and begins to trade.

  Ryzaard stands to the side, observing the greed flow unabated.

  Ten minutes later, the directors look like wax figures in some modern art display, staring ahead motionlessly at the wallscreen, fingers dancing over jaxes.

  He gently clears his throat to interrupt.

  “My apologies, but we’ll have to terminate the demonstration at this point. We don’t want to attract the attention of the International Securities and Exchange Commission. ISEC tends to get rather curious about creative trading activity.”

  Eleven exhausted directors, including Van Pelt, sit down, and the lights come back on.

  “How did we do?” Ryzaard inquires of the directors as he claps his hands together.

  “I just made 500,000 IMUs,” one of the directors exclaims. “I can finally get that beach house in Fiji.”

  “Very good. I trust that we have demonstrated the power of our new technology to your complete satisfaction.” Ryzaard’s hands hang earnestly behind his back. “Any questions, Ms. Chen?”

  The Chinese woman bows and sits down without a word.

  “You’ve seen the technology we now have. Needless to say, it is the first of its kind, ushering in a revolution in the profitability of the entire corporate enterprise.” Ryzaard pauses for effect. “But we can do better. With enough resources, we can increase the volume of our data streams and boost the power of our predictive analytics by several orders of magnitude. Instead of thirteen seconds, what if we could predict thirteen hours or thirteen days into the future? What if we could predict phenomena other than the market, say consumer preferences, or even world events, such as the recent acquisition by the Japanese of military bases in Thailand, Greece and Tonga? With a little imagination, there is no limit to our potential for profit.”

  A stir rips through the directors.

  Ryzaard lowers his voice to a whisper. The room goes silent. “The only constraint on our algorithms is computing power. We’ve run up against the limits of our resources. We need to invest more, much more, to exploit this to our full advantage. And we need to make changes to the corporate organization to better suit this new direction.”

  Ryzaard arches an eyebrow in Van Pelt’s direction. “I give the floor back to the Chairman. I’m sure you will find his proposals interesting.”

  CHAPTER 14

  Matt slides through the back door into the kitchen just before midnight. His dad is sitting at the table working on a slate. “You don’t have to wait up for me, Dad.”

  “I know,” Kent says. “I’ve been working on an investigation of LanGar Corporation. Seems their tuna ranch off the coast of New Guinea is leaking toxic levels of nitrogen. Another red algae bloom disaster to track.”

  Moving past his dad to the kitchen sink, Matt fills a glass of water and downs it in three loud gulps. “Keep up the cyber-sleuthing. As for me, I’m going to bed. Big day tomorrow.” He disappears down the
stairs into his room.

  As he lies on his futon waiting for sleep to come, the silent darkness seems to enter his mind, wrap around itself and form into a knot. The tightness becomes a ball that moves down from his head into his stomach, as if it were trying to get out. Twitching fingers grab the jax next to his hand and dance along its side.

  Hey Jess. Still up?

  Two seconds later, the vibration tells him she is reading the message. He waits for a reply, following the usual routine for talking late at night.

  What’s on your mind?

  He taps the jax and switches to a sim of her real voice so he can listen to the warm tones. That’s much better than reading cold words on a holo screen, and it’s always a relaxing way to end the day. With his eyes closed, the fingers of his left hand wrap around the organic cylinder shape of the jax and play replies to her in the dark. On its own, his other hand finds the rock.

  Just thinking about my mom. Did I ever tell you about the last time I saw her?

  Matt hasn’t even shared this with his dad.

  Nope. Tell me.

  His palms feel moist as the scene replays in his mind like it has for the last twelve years, over and over, like a stuck holo. But now he isn’t sure he wants to go over it again. Moving on its own, his hand starts to play it out anyway.

  The last morning I saw Mom, I was mad because she made me part my hair on the side. It was picture day, and she wanted me to look neat. I was in fifth grade, and the neat look wasn’t in style for ten-year-olds.

  He sends the message and waits for Jess to reply. A few seconds later, she does.

  I remember the wild hair we used to have back then. Wing jobs, Flamehawks, Curly-Qs. It’d be hard to come to school looking like a neat freak. Go on.

  His hand trembles just a little.

  I told my mom she was mean, unfair and stupid. I told her I could do whatever I wanted with my hair and to just leave me alone.

  This time, it takes more than a few seconds for Jessica to reply.

  Matt, you were just a kid. You didn’t know what you were saying. You didn’t mean it. Your mom understood.

  Tears well up in the dark. A stream of wetness cascades out of the corner of his eye into an ear and onto the futon.

  But I really did mean it. Do you know what the last thing I said to her was?

  He senses that Jessica does.

  What was it?

  Matt reaches up with his right hand and wipes the moisture from his eyes. The fingers of his left hand flex and move as the words spread out through the Mesh.

  I told her I hated her and I wished she were dead.

  The ball of emotion in his stomach explodes, and Matt’s body convulses with pent-up sobbing. It feels so good to let it flow out, like the purging of a great filthiness. A load of guilt lifts from his shoulders.

  Minutes pass in the dark. Somehow Jessica knows what he’s doing.

  It’s good for you to cry. Let it come out. You need that.

  Matt’s fingers seem to separate from his body, playing out a message from deep in his subconscious.

  I love her so much. But I never told her, Jess. And now she’s gone. She’ll never know. How could I be such a bad son?

  Her reply comes instantly. Not even Jess can play a jax that fast. She must have been waiting to send it.

  She loved you then. She loves you now. She still lives, just in a different place. Tell her. Tell her that you love her. She’ll know your feelings.

  Matt smiles. For a few seconds, he is enveloped in the comfort of belief. But it doesn’t last. It never does.

  I wish I could be like you. You’re so sure. But it doesn’t work for me.

  More seconds pass.

  Someday you’ll understand. Just be patient.

  He reaches up again and wipes the tears from his eyes. Then he opens them, stares up at the ceiling and silently mouths the words.

  Mom, I love you.

  Somehow, he feels better. His fingers fly over the jax again.

  What are you doing right now, Jess?

  He already knows, but wants to hear it from her.

  What I always do just before sleep. Reading the Bible. Talking to God. Thinking about you.

  Jessica comes from a family of Jesus-believers, a religion past its prime, long since out of style and much too demanding.

  He went to church with her once, and all he saw were old people desperately holding on to an old morality, with an almost comical focus on staying chaste.

  No wonder there are so few young people who believe.

  But Jessica is one of them.

  It’s much more stylish to not believe in anything. But if you have to believe in something, the best choice is Shinto, an ancient tradition from Japan now fashionably repackaged as the newest green religion. Or Buddhism. And, conveniently, neither of them has much in the way of commandments.

  What are you reading, and what do you say to God?

  Matt isn’t a believer, but he needs to hear her talk about it right now.

  Funny you should ask. I’m in the Book of John. “I am the resurrection and the life; he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live.”

  Matt lets his mind wander.

  I wish I could know it’s true. Like you. I wish I could know that Mom’s still out there, that I’ll see her again.

  His eyelids drop down, and he tries to see his mother, to remember her voice, to be ten years old again and feel her gently rubbing his back as he drifts off to sleep. Or six years old, standing on the beach, hand in hand, listening to the surf.

  Matt, you can believe. Just don’t fight it.

  A tide of relaxation rises up and folds around him as he listens to Jessica’s voice-sim. He plays it over and over. Just before surrendering to the pull of sleep, his hand mutters out a last message.

  I do believe, Jess. I believe in you.

  Then the dreams begin.

  He looks down at his hand and sees a faint green light growing within the Stone.

  He is standing at the edge of a pool at the base of a waterfall, lush jungle on every side, safe and comfortable. A soft wall of branches, leaves and flowers protects this little sanctuary from the rest of the world. Kneeling down, he touches his lips to the water and draws in the sweet wetness. Without hesitation, he dives in and swims across to the other side, pulling himself out and lying on warm sand under a brilliant sun. Palm leaves, bamboo and ferns fill the space around him with deep pastel colors.

  When he looks up, there’s a dirt path leading into the jungle. It seems to pull him to a standing position, and he follows it. Now and then he catches a glimpse of the sun cutting through the canopy overhead. Soft leaves brush his face and arms. The moist air is heavy with the sweet aroma of hanging flowers. Limes, oranges and mangoes dot the trees. Birds call from high up in the branches.

  After walking for hours, Matt feels Jessica at his side. He takes her hand. They walk together.

  As they move deeper into the jungle, it starts to grow dark. Snakes hang from branches. Their dry reptilian scales brush across his skin. Shadows move behind the trees. Matt hears the sound of running feet and labored breathing.

  It’s coming closer, chasing him and Jessica.

  With his heart beating like a piston in his chest, he breaks into a run and pulls Jessica with him. When he looks down, the path has turned into thorns and thistles. They plunge deeper and deeper into the bush, jumping over fallen trees, breaking through vines. The oppressive stench of burnt sulfur hangs in the air. The caustic smell stings his nostrils and sticks in his mouth.

  Jessica’s fingers slip from his grasp. He turns around. She’s rolling on the ground with a vine wrapped around her ankle and crying for him to come back. His chest seizes with fear. Dark shapes overtake her. He does nothing, and they pull her back into the darkness of the jungle out of sight. In horror, he turns away and runs blindly through the dense undergrowth. Her shrieks fill him with terror and remorse.

  The ground under his b
are feet is crawling with insects and spiders. Snakes dangle from the trees and brush against his face. The sulfuric stench makes it hard to breathe. The ground is cold, wet and soft. He stumbles into deep mud and sinks rapidly past his knees. He can hear the heavy breathing come closer. In the darkness, bulging eyes gather around him. The mud sucks him still deeper. The shapes bare their teeth and hiss. He knows what they’re doing. They’re waiting for his face to disappear into the black viscous mass. It reaches his chest, and then engulfs his arms and shoulders. Soon the mud is moving past his neck. It’s seeping into his mouth, covering his nose. He can’t breathe. Only his eyes remain above the surface. All is darkness around him.

  Just before going under, he looks up to a sky full of crystal stars.

  One point of light grows larger and drops down.

  He feels it pulling on him, lifting his head and shoulders out of the mud.

  The light becomes a Woman in a sea of luminosity. As she comes closer, Matt can see that the Woman herself is the source of light. Her hands, feet, face and hair all shine as if lit from within.

  There is a white Stone in her hand.

  The same shape as the rock Matt found in Powder Puff Basin.

  The mud and the dark shapes are gone. The jungle vanishes, and he is standing in a mountain meadow under a warm sun. The air is filled with the aroma of pine trees and huckleberries. The Woman points to someone walking toward him through the wildflowers.

  His mouth forms a single word that slips effortlessly from his lips.

  “Mother.”

  CHAPTER 15

  “That was too easy.”

  Ryzaard reclines in his high-back chair and stares out the window with his feet propped up on the meditation platform. He passes the Zeus statue back and forth between his hands and traces the line of a helicopter cutting through the early dawn fog above Midtown Manhattan.

  Van Pelt stands alone in front of the desk with his suit coat on, hands behind his back, like a small child in the school principal’s office. “I’d rather not discuss this with another person in the room.” He casts a nervous glance to the right where Alexa stands with her back to him, admiring the old Chinese wall scroll.